Just Like Leila
by DarkBlaziken
Summary: FE7. He stared down disbelievingly at her broken body, the strange familiarity setting in, but he hoped it was all a dream... MatthewSerra


**A/N:** yes, i know, this is so unlike me to write a MatthewSerra, but it was meant to be Hector's(ThunderBlastoise) birthday present. well, i was racking my brains for a humorous MatthewSerra, but all that came were tragic ideas. So i just wrote it down anyway. Review if you want to, but comments are really appreciated:)

note: parts may be slightly gory for the really weak-hearted. it's not that bad, just...blood.

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Just Like Leila

"Seriously it's just a small cut…I'll be fine," Matthew protested, trying to wriggle his arm free from Serra's iron grip. This only caused her to clutch on even harder.

"No. I don't care, it's still an arrow wound and you're not getting away until that cut is clean." She waved her Heal Staff in a very bossy manner and passed it over the wound, which vanished instantly. Matthew jerked his arm free quickly. What was Aurelia playing at, sending _Serra_ of all people with him to pilfer the stuff?

He was distracted as the sound of clanking armour came from behind, revealing four knights and two generals. _Great,_ he thought bitterly. _Reinforcements on top of everything else._ Muttering an almost inaudible curse, he drew his daggers. Fighting against generals was the worst thing for a sword unit like him.

"Stand back," he told Serra. Praying for the best, he aimed for the neck of the nearest knight. A slashing sound told him that he hit his target. Not wasting a single moment, he went for the other knights, finishing them off quickly.

The generals were the problematic ones. The armour covered every inch of their body save the tiniest gap between the head and neck armour, revealing about half an inch of their neck. Matthew went for the gap; his dagger hit one inch too low, encountering solid metal. Then, he was forced to roll over to the side as the silver lance came his way.

The generals had placed themselves most strategically; Matthew was sandwiched in between, dodging the synchronized lance thrusts with extreme difficulty. If he did not manage to kill one of them soon, he would be hit; his stamina had never been great.

He lunged at the general again; his blade barely slit through the gap to the vulnerable neck below. However it had done the job; with a grunt of pain the general fell backwards onto the cold stone floor. He did not get up.

The other general had extracted a Short Spear and hurled it at him. Matthew ducked down and heard the spear whiz past him, sinking into a pillar with a dull thunk. Before the general could take another spear, he looped around the general and stuck his dagger right through the neck. Blood spurted out, spattering onto the walls. With a tug Matthew retrieved his weapon and sheathed it. Just as he did so, a raspy voice came from behind.

"Eliwood and his friends eh? You'll be the first to go then…" Before Matthew could even draw his daggers, he heard the person land behind with a slash of his blade. However, the expected pain and blacking out never came. Turning around, he saw Jerme, the Death Kite, bloodied daggers outstretched, a look of surprise on his face. Serra had appeared out of nowhere, and to Matthew's horror there was a crimson cut across her neck. He staff clattered to the floor. The next moment, she swayed and fell, but Matthew caught her. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Blood continued to flow freely from her neck. Matthew stared at her, numb with shock, not knowing what to do, watching desperately as the lift slowly dwindled out of her.

The raspy voice of Jerme's broke through his numbness. "Wrong target…but never mind. You're all part of Eliwood's army, the more the merrier…" he flicked out his blades and aimed once again for Matthew. The voice seemed to have aroused the anger in him, and anger gave him power. He pulled out his own daggers and blocked the assassin's blades easily. He had forgotten that he was but a spy, a thief. He had forgotten that his skill would not match the Death Kite's. All his anger told him to do was to kill Jerme, and all he knew was that the Black Fang had done enough pain to him already, and he could not, would not allow it to happen again…

He dived at Jerme and saw the assassin's eyes widen in shock as his dagger struck the side of the stomach. Jerme hissed an angry curse, twirled his daggers and went for Matthew again, but Matthew's reflexes were faster than they had ever been; he was so fast that even the Silencer missed his neck. All it did was to carve a huge gash down Matthew's arm. It screamed with pain, but Matthew ignored it. He threw himself at Jerme, parried away the daggers and thrust all his weight on his dagger, driving it into Jerme's chest.

The assassin staggered backwards, staring down at the hilt of Matthew's dagger protruding from his chest. A twisted smile appeared on his face. "Defeated me, haven't you? It doesn't matter, Lord Nergal shall…take…your…" He broke off, his face hardened, rigid, the evil grin fixed. Then, Jerme collapsed to a heap onto the floor like a crumbling statue, made a strange gurgling sound, and lay still, defeated, dead.

Matthew watched him fall, blood flowing from the assassin's mouth. Rage was still etched on Matthew's face, an almost extreme fury. A small gasp drew his attention back to Serra, who face was pale and bloodless, all her usual vitality gone.

Matthew knelt down beside her, the numb shock returning, the denial, his helplessness. He fumbled in his pockets for an Elixir, but they were empty, filled with nothing but his set of lockpicks. He cursed himself silently for that. Why had he been so stubborn, refusing to bring any healing potion? He looked around desperately for the others, but no one was in sight. They were all alone, Serra dying, and Matthew could not do anything to help her. He gazed down at her, the strange familiarity of something in the atmosphere, yet he did not want to admit it, to admit it was happening again…

Serra's eyelids fluttered, saw him, and gave a weak smile. She tried to speak again, but only a strange croaky sound emerged. Matthew felt a stabbing pain inside him. He would give anything for Serra to order him around in her bright voice again, give anything to see her prancing around, complaining about the weather…

Why did she have to block the blow for him? _Why?_ He would rather have died than let her take the blow. He did not want to admit it, but Serra was like Leila in many ways. Her bossy attitude, her smile, her optimism…yet she was unique in her own way. And though he tries to deny it, he had, slowly, developed feelings for her. Now, to see her life ebb away before his very eyes, it was torture—grief beyond what any physical expression can convey.

Serra raised a trembling hand. He grasped it—it was ice cold and powerless, the chill penetrating, freezing to his heart. Just a while ago, Serra had held him with her iron grip, but now…he stared sorrowfully at her, eyes still miraculously dry. He had forgotten how to cry long ago, ever since he had trained up as a spy. He had not shed a single tear when he saw Leila's body, broken and still, but part of him had died with her. It was almost as though it was happening again, right now, only that it was Serra he was holding, it was Serra who was dying this time—

_She's not dead,_ a voice spoke in his head. _She's not dead, she won't be, I will not let this be the Dread Isle all over again—_

But those were only empty words. Even as he thought of them, he felt Serra's grip loosening, her fingers slipping out of his grip. As the hand thudded onto the cold stone floor, Serra's eyelids drooped, shielding the bright violet eyes behind them for eternity. Her last smile was still sketched on her face, but it now seemed so unreal. Even in death she had a shocking resemblance to Leila, from the sad smile to her position to even the pool of sticky, ruby-red liquid that had accumulated below the deep cut on her neck. Blood had stopped flowing from it now, and all it was was a lethal red mark of death, the aftermath of a Silencer.

A chilling gust of wind swept by, taking away her lingering connections to life, taking away part of Matthew with her. He was still carrying her broken form, gazing blankly down as though hoping the whole thing was some bizarre dream.

He was alone.

Serra had left the world forever, had left Matthew.

Just like Leila did.


End file.
